As she speaks, I’m astonished to detect the traces of an old wound in her normally calm and cool gaze. I want to press her about what else she knows about Nick—and how—but I’m not sure I really care to know the answer.
Then she blinks and the illusion of pain I thought I saw in her eyes vanishes. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
I nod, uncertain what the appropriate response might be to her warning or her intimate insight into Nick, which I can only assume comes from personal experience. How had he hurt Margot? How many others has he cast aside, banished, when they tried to get too close? I feel certain there are many.
Just as I feel certain I will be next, unless I make every effort to steer clear of him.
Chapter 15
“Hang on, Miss Avery. Let me help you with those.”
Manny hurries outside to meet me at the taxi in front of the building. I’m just returning from lunch with Margot, bringing my paintings along with me in the backseat of the cab. The four pieces are crated and stacked against one another on the seat. As I work to pull the awkward cartons out by myself, he wheels a chrome-finished dolly out and moves close to assist.
“It’s okay, Manny. I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can, Miss.” He lightly taps my shoulder. “Please, allow me.”
Although I’m more comfortable doing things for myself, he’s such a kind man, refusing his help almost seems like an insult, so I step aside.
“All right, then. But please be careful with them.”
“Of course,” he assures me.
Although he’s not young, he’s stronger than he looks. I pay the driver, then watch Manny gently lift each bulky package out of the vehicle with smooth, steady arms. As he sets the last carton on the dolly, I notice him glancing at the Dominion Gallery logo on the crates Margot gave me for transporting my pieces.
“Been doing a little shopping, have ya?”
I practically laugh at the idea that I could afford to buy art, especially from a gallery as exclusive as Dominion. Nick’s gallery, I silently amend. The reminder of my conversation with Margot puts a bitter taste in my mouth. “No shopping today. I’m just bringing a few things home that belong to me.”
“No kidding?” The doorman’s eyes brighten with genuine delight. “You’re a professional artist, Miss Avery?”
Maybe because it’s Manny—because I feel safe with him, secure, in a way I rarely do with men in general—I don’t try to deny the one thing that’s always given me such joy. I don’t feel the need to justify myself to him, not even when he’s wheeling my rejected work ahead of me into the building.
“I paint a bit. It’s something I’ve loved doing since I was a kid.”
“Well, that’s just terrific,” he enthuses as we cross the lobby together, heading for the elevators. “What kind of things do you paint?”
“Landscapes and cityscapes, mostly. A still life, here and there. I’ve done some portraiture, but I had to give it up.” I shrug. “No matter how hard I try, I can never get faces to look real enough.”
Manny chuckles. “Tell that to Picasso.”
I smile as he gestures for me to step into the open elevator ahead of him. He follows me inside with the dolly and presses the button for the fifth floor. As the car begins to ascend, he indicates the cartons holding my art.
“So, what kinds of paintings are these?”
“Oh, just a few scenes from around the city.” I dismiss his interest with a small smile. “Nothing special.”
“Special enough to be in Mr. Baine’s gallery. I’d say that’s far better than most.”
I wince internally. The doorman knows Nick owns the gallery? Oh, God. Does he also know I spent the night in Nick’s penthouse last week?
I glance up to the small security camera mounted in the corner of the elevator car and can hardly suppress my groan of mortification. Although the one Nick and I took from the garage was a private car, it’s too much to hope that it isn’t equipped with the same kind of security equipment as this one.
Wonderful. As if my day hasn’t been humiliating and awkward enough. My only saving grace is the fact that Nick isn’t here to witness me schlepping my crates through the building right now too. I consider everything Margot said about him—and the fact that he played me that night, letting me believe he was only at the gallery as a customer. Seducing me with all of his talk about passion and pain and the pleasure of being reckless.
I imagine him in London these past several days, chuckling at my idiocy—at how easily my legs fell open for him—and it makes my blood boil with outrage. I burn with disappointment, too, but that’s harder for me to acknowledge. I don’t want to feel hurt where Nick Baine is concerned. I don’t want to admit, even to myself, that he has the power to wound me. That would really make me his fool.